Rhoda Bowden was walking over Yennadon Down, a broad tract of common above the gorges of Meavy. Great spaces stretched beneath her and a still higher and mightier wilderness heaved upward beyond the river and the forests to the east. There Ringmoor extended, and its lone miles basked in unclouded sunshine. Beneath lay Sheepstor and Meavy, each crowned by a church tower; while beyond rolled out long leagues of Devon to the margins of the sea. But Rhoda’s eyes were on the ground and she moved with less than her usual steady purpose. An empty cartridge met her glance and some small grey object that fluttered in the mouth of it led her to stop and pick up the fragment. The cartridge was old and weather-worn; the live creature that had found this convenient receptacle was a large and dusky moth. For a moment Rhoda felt interested, then, perceiving that this insect had laid many eggs within the empty cartridge, she shuddered slightly and flung the moth and its nursery away; because maternity on such a scale seemed loathsome to her even in an insect. She was on her way to Buckland of the Monks with a message from David, and she welcomed the long and lonely day promised by this task, for not a few matters lay heavy on her mind. Rhoda’s responsibilities were growing beyond power of control. But the anticipated hours of reflection were largely curtailed, for when she returned to the highway nigh Dousland Barn, a light cart overtook her and the driver was Simon Snell. His face indicated the most profound surprise. He smiled, hesitated, gave her ’good-morning,’ proceeded on his way, then changed his mind again, pulled up and alighted. "What a terrible coorious thing as me and you should both be bound out along like this--on the very same day too!" he said. "So ’tis then, and I hope you’re well. Us haven’t met this longful time." "I was coming over one Sunday this summer," he declared; "but now will do just so well. I be going out to Vartuous Lady Mine to spend the day along with my brother James and his wife. You might not have heard me tell much about him, perhaps? I’ve took a day off--by permission, of course--and I’m carrying ’em a gift, because they’m not very well-to-do, I’m sorry to say." "I’m going to Buckland Monachorum for David." "Well, I never! What could have falled out better? I very nearly drove by you; because I said to myself, ’Perhaps it might be too pushing in me to offer to give her a lift.’ But I’m very glad I didn’t, and I hope you’ll accept of a seat till I leave your road. ’Tis a fainty sort of day, with thunder offering, in my opinion." "Thank you, I should be very glad if you’ve got room." "Room enough. I’m taking my brother half a pig as we killed last week, and his wife a bunch of they white Mary lilies, what grow to a miracle in our garden. People stop and stare at ’em. And if you’ll sit alongside me--if it isn’t making too bold--" She ascended and they proceeded together.